


Gotham

by GraceEliz



Series: Silver Dragon [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alfred is a Wizard, Alternate Universe, Draco Malfoy is a BAMF, Gen, Many kinds of magic, OOCness will abound and I do not care, Powerful Draco Malfoy, References to the MCU, Showers, Tea, blending mythology with fandom, cryptid batfam, post-battle rituals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-09-26 01:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: The Dragon has been charged to take this girl - Penny, he thinks her name is, but he has no need to know - down to Earth, to a city called Gotham. It's nice, not being in a war zone, but he's too tired to enjoy it.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I.... Well. This has been a long time in coming. The series will have stories for the stages of Draco's adventures. This story will deal with the trip to Gotham, and I expect it to be two or three chapters. I have another in the works about his childhood and how he came to be so far from Earth - but you'll have to wait for that one. It isn't finished yet.

The grey Gotham night isn’t as oppressive to Draco as it is to the unfortunate country-bred sod he was accompanying. His orders were to survive the battle and get this kid, name of Penny or something, to Gotham and give her to Batman or Wayne Manor, either would do. The early morning gloom was lifted into eery, sickly yellow by the light trembling from the far end of the city. Was that a bat shining off the smog? Really? A bat. Well, fair enough, he supposed. Vigilantes needed branding as much as the next warrior. Draco snuck a glance at the woman by his side. She looked almost as hunched and exhausted as he felt, blood spattered over her plain black dragonhide armour and muddied skin. They were of a height, allegedly the same height as Nightwing of the Gotham Bats, with similar skin tones but different eyes and hair cropped short for wartime practicality. There’s no time for doing your hair when you can’t technically breathe the atmosphere of the planet you’re fighting on. All his energy had left him after the first battle, his seidr-magic keeping him alive long enough to eat and sleep and keep fighting in a war he’d spent months attempting to prevent. 

Draco’s plan for tonight is very simple:  
Find a high roof in Gotham  
;  
Do something to catch attention, eg turn into a dragon, or something;  
Wait for a Bat to turn up  
;  
Ask for Batman  
. 

Hopefully this will get the drop off done within the next few hours and he can find somewhere to crash and sleep off the post-battle exhaustion before he world-walks back to Alfheim for the rendezvous to count his dead. The Bats are by all accounts very insular and efficient, just his type of being, likely to throw him out of the city in the direction of the much friendlier Metropolis after a meal and shower. Good plan, that. Someone once told him he read like an apex predator, and if anyone tries anything he’s powerful enough to make them regret it even without waking up, so he could just crash in a barn or something in the middle of nowhere for thirty or so hours whilst his magic restores and his mortal body recuperates.

Honestly though? It’s a relief just to be in an atmosphere with the right oxygen levels.

“Whur we go’n?” she croaks as they look over the cityscape. Draco squints at the distant source of light, forcing just a little more out of his tired eyes, trying to decide whether to cross the many roofs between them and it. Not worth it.

“Waitin’. Gotta gi’ you t’ Batman or som’in,” he rasps, feeling like he’s not drunk in months or slept in even longer, “Take ‘n hour or so. ‘nen I’m back t’ Alfheim for th’ meeting.” A meeting for the leaders and commanders, for counting the casualties and reassigning soldiers, for grieving and swearing new alliances to end the conflict. Dried blood and dust flakes under his nails as he scrapes at a stain splattered across his scalp. Draco is dully aware of the sheer horror of his appearance, somewhere below the layers upon layers of fatigue swamping his brain. The Bats will probably attempt to arrest him on sight. He might let them; he’d kill (again) for a hot shower.

“Incoming,” says Penny or whoever. She doesn’t move. No point really, since the Bat is why they’re here in the first place. Draco settles his palm over his sword (he hasn’t used a wand in years) and pushes magic into the air, protection runes and shielding runes and battle runes just in case the Bat takes offense at their presence. He can sense them, their heartbeats rapid as active people’s always are. He wonders if he’ll be able to taste the lies they’ll tell them. It doesn’t matter, all that has to happen is that Penny or whoever is taken in.

A series of dark shadows coalesce in a very inhuman way, setting his hackle-scales on edge. That’s old earth magic, far older than most magics he’s encountered in the decades he’s been in training (always train, always get better).

“Who are you,” growls the biggest shadow.

“Batman,” greets Draco, “I’ve a delivery.”

Penny waves two fingers in a typical post-battle salute. The Bat moves forward, shadows solidifying into a man with a heavy cape and a bat mask – the legend, in the flesh.

“I’ve heard tell you’re a god,” he continues. The Bat looks unconcerned. Good. He’ll do as a god-being, even if he’s nothing more than a human with a demon’s tenacity and a penchant for heroism, on that alone. Unshakeable. “I could use a shower,” Penny or whoever speaks up tentatively. He’d taught her how to interact with unknowns. Rule one: be cautious. Rule two: take what you can get. Bat’s eyes narrowed, and what was visible of a very strong scarred jaw tensed even further. Draco didn’t smile. Rule three: if your opportunity isn’t offered, create it. Another shadow steps out on the parapet to his back, yellow blazing on the chest against the void of nothingness. A death-seer, huh. Unusual on this planet for certain. She would see the stains on his soul, see his intentions before he acted on them. 

Dangerous.

“Look, I’m too tired. Take us in, give us a shower, find us Alfred Pennyworth, and I’ll be gone.” Draco is at his final reserve, every part of him numb. The Bat-child, a death-child, nods. Penny sighs in relief. The night curls around the Bat-folk in the same way light would curl around him come dawn. The Bat nods, final. He makes a mental note in the grog of his consciousness to tell Penny to be less obvious about her relief.

They reach the Cave in good time, both agreeing to blindfolds as a show of good faith. They must look like criminals, war prisoners, thrown in the back of the tank-car with their filth and a few visible archaic weapons and binds. No point in resisting such a request – Draco knows that he could kill them in seconds if he really has to. It wouldn’t be wise, but it would be possible. He has a war to win, he will not be letting some human send him to his blood-sworn in Helheim before his thread runs out.

The small child in the passenger seat is a curious thing. He can be no more than twelve. Like his family, he reeks of death. So much of it has fogged his nose for so long Draco doubts he can eradicate the smell. The Bat must be his father.

Maybe, since he’s on Earth, he should visit his mother.  
The vehicle screeches to a halt. Draco allows himself to be bundled out of it onto the hard rock, grateful to sit. These Bats will not hurt them. Penny – he must get her name before he leaves if she has one – collapses beside him.

“Stat,” he demands. 

“Alive," she answers dryly, "Two cracked ribs. One fracture to something down my leg. Can’t feel it.”

“Deep wounds?”

“Three. Upper right arm, left shoulder, left calf.”

“You’ll live,” he told her as the blindfold lifted off his face. She huffed out what passed as a laugh among soldiers. The Bat loomed tall and dark above their heads. Physical intimidation meant nothing to Draco – it would take more than a living shadow to put fear in him after the battlefields he’d left behind.


	2. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets his long awaited shower, meets an old acquaintance (really he should have made the connection), makes a few discoveries about the girl he's accompanying, and meets a boy who isn't technically alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ups the chapter count*  
Here you go guys

“You want to shower.”

“Oh Norns yes,” agrees Draco, “Jus’ look at us. We loo’ like murder victims.”

“Or murderers,” puts in Penny as she peels off the top layer of armour wound about her right arm. The tough leather creaks, dried blood and muck flaking to the ground. She pauses, settling the dragonhide again. “I’ll do this somewhere it can be easily hosed off.”

The Bat sighs. “Black Bat will escort you, and when you are cleaned we will treat your wounds.”

“Fine by us, if you aren’t squeamish.” If course they are not, death-children never are, but the surface humour is helping Draco stay awake in an environment he can’t risk losing track of. In his current state, a concerted attack could take him down, even with all his years defending himself. The death-seer, Black Bat, steps lightly forwards and gestures for them to follow her. As they tramp through the cave in her wake, Draco lets his grasp of elocution drop back into the swirling depths of himself. He makes himself focus on the blood-scents wafting against his senses. Enough of his own blood is spilled, soaked and caked into the silk and cotton layers of his Elven under-armour, that he can catch a hint of the blood-scents of his blood-sworn family. 

He misses them like he misses the sunshine of Asgard. 

To his surprise, the showers are formed similarly to how he recalls the Hogwarts sports showers to be structured. There’s an S-shaped entry, then a slight ramp down to a changing area with another slight ramp where the large shower blocks are, each equipped with a heavy-looking shower curtain for privacy. 

“Practical,” he compliments. The Bat looks at him steadily, halted in the centre of the room. “Pen – need a han’?”

“Please.”

They work together to strip, no modesty left by battlefields and training camps, peeling leather and dropping it into two piles (one for Draco’s time-worn hides, one for Penny’s new-broken fresh leather) a few feet apart. Tracing each other’s fresh wounds with the barest hint of magic, they carry out one of the only post battle rituals Draco has ever carried out: humming the Valhalla-dirge for their fallen shield-brothers and shield-sisters. Singing the dirges is impossible for them both, what with how exhausted they are physically, mentally and emotionally. The Bat’s daughter watches in dead silence. 

“Go show’r. Ge’ yeself clean,” murmurs Draco. They head to the showers, Black Bat trailing and leaning without being asked to switch first one then the other on. If she feels it, she shows no sign of discomfort at their nakedness or filth. “Thank you, Bat,” thanks Penny, exhaustion plain in her voice. After a moment’s hesitation, Black Bat inclines her head. 

The shower is bliss. So blissful Draco’s thoughts white out, so that his only awareness is the wonderful heat soaking into strained muscles, relaxing his drained magical core, stinging momentarily in his open wounds before the protective magic kicks in to form a barrier. Slumping where he stands, he tips his head back to let the water run down his face. It will take more than one round of shampoo to get the month’s worth of filth out of his inch-long silvery hair. 

Acting sluggishly on the thought, he reaches for one of the bottles of generic allergen-safe shampoo in the plastic basket in the corner of the stall. Frankly, it could not matter less whether the shampoo is branded, scented or even need-specific; if it is going to get him even half clean it is getting used. The gel pools in his palm as only shampoo does, making him smile. It feels like it’s been decades since he last used Earth shampoo – it isn’t quite that many years, but it’s certainly been more than ten for him since he last set foot on this planet. How that equates to Earth’s time-passage he can’t say, what with each system and planet rotating and orbiting at different speeds around their suns. 

Delightful lemon fills his nose, almost overpowering the blood and death heavy on his tongue, suds running over his hands. The sensation makes him want to laugh. He won’t, because he’s in the shower, and he is in enough control that he knows that’s a terrible idea.   
Next step: body scrub. There is none in the basket, which makes sense to Draco. Soldiers are known for causing themselves injury when permitted to finally process the sights they’ve seen. He chooses a yellow bottle of shower soap, assuming it to be yellow, and after a momentary consideration uses a tiny quantity of magic to sterilise the flannel provided. It’s clean, of course, but he’d rather not take the chance of catching a cold or something. One can’t take planetary diseases through space. 

Languishing in the feel of soap and hot water, he runs his mostly-clean hands through his hair, watching the pink water run down the drain. He’d avoided watching it when he first entered he shower and he isn’t planning to think about how much filth has already gone down the drain.

“You’ve both been in for twenty minutes now,” rumbles the Bat himself from the other side of the curtains, “Don’t fall asleep.”

“I could,” admits Penny, “You have on demand hot water.” The awe in her voice makes him want to laugh. Simple people, soldiers in these interstellar wars. Give them hot food, hot water and clean clothes and you’re half way to a new alliance. He’s garnered several by doing exactly that – restocking ranks is easy when you promise a good meal, sanitation, and restoration aid at the end of the campaign. Another few minutes, and the water is running clear, so Draco rubs down with the soap and flannel again, rinses, and repeats just to make sure before letting himself go limp against the wall. He never wants to move again. Turning the shower to cold will be good for his skin, but he’s so warm, for the first time in ages, and so tired. Sleep wraps around the edges of his mind – 

“Drake, ready?”

“Mm, yeah, minute,” he jerks back awake. “S’lon’, hot water.” Mournfully, he switches the shower off. “Uh, towel?”

A towel is thrust through the curtain. 

“Ta.” Black, soft, and huge, a proper bath sheet, he rubs himself down thoroughly then wraps the sheet around himself. It reaches from his armpits all the way down to his knees. He definitely will be putting some of these in his seidr-pockets. 

“You’re about the size of my eldest, so I brought you both some of his clothes.” Talkative. 

“Thank you,” says Penny. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“Hn.”

Draco picks up the long t-shirt, letting it unfold in his arms, and smiles broadly. “Is that Doctor Who?” It is indeed, an image of the TARDIS on a grey background. “I might have to keep it,” he teases. 

“Please don’t, I like those shirts,” groans a new voice, Nightwing, from the S-corridor. Draco smiles. The leggings are comfortably stretchy, if a tiny bit loose on the waist. Looking at Penny, he sees that she too has lost weight. She ties a knot in the waistband, rolling her eyes when it pops out. Black Bat hands her a bobble. The two of them look wrecked, if the bags under his eyes are half of those under hers. Whilst he knows his hair will dry floaty but flat-lying, hers is sticking up in tufts. She looks like the Idurian pagur she’s codenamed for during an electrosol storm. 

Nightwing is in his suit, still, blue stripes on black. Branding.

“Why did you agree to bring us here?” 

“Well,” responds Nightwing, “BB trusts you, B didn’t complain, RR thinks you’re both meant to be dead.”

“Fair enough,” agrees Draco, “Those are all valid reasons.”

Nightwing smiles. “Come on, you said you wanted Alfred Pennyworth, right?” Penny nods eagerly. “This way, then,” so they follow him out of the showers into the main cave where there stands an old man, tallish and strong, reeking of magic. 

Draco knows him. 

Draco also knows when Alfred Pennyworth of the Special Unspeakable Services and Her Majesties’ Royal Navy and the maternal great-great-uncle of his long time crush Hermione Granger recognises him as a Malfoy, because the tea tray clatters to the ground.   
“Draco Malfoy?” 

“Yes.”

“We thought you were dead.”

“It was for the best,” Draco brushes the not-quite-an-accusation away. 

The spy-officer-butler-wizard raises an eyebrow. “She missed you.”

“My mother knows I’m alive,” says Draco, ignoring that the comment was about Hermione who never liked him anyway because he was an intolerable bully who didn’t stand up for himself against his father, “My father never deserved to know.”

“That’s reasonable,” admits Alfred. “Tea?”

“Norns above, yes.” Penny coughs discretely. “Ah, this is – ”

“Draco only knows me as Pagur, which is a snakish creature with blonde fur, but my name is Evalina Barnes. You knew my parents.”

Alfred and Draco both stare. She’s a Barnes? As in, the High Queen? Oh Norns – if he’d lost her at any point she was under his command he’d have been responsible for the death of the High Queen’s only daughter. 

“Barnes, like James Barnes?”

Evalina-not-Penny perks up. “You know my dad?” she asks hopefully. 

No. He’s long dead. 

Oh boy. This is so far above his pay grade. He heaves a sigh, glances at the still-stunned Alfred, and takes charge. “Look. Evalina, let’s get some food and rest before we deal with this, okay?” He turns to the Bat. “May we stay here for a day or two? We need food and sleep.”

“Of course you must,” says Alfred firmly, “You are my guests.” Nobody argues. The aged wizard guides them out of the cave, and Draco is going to tell the High Queen about the lifts here because at base camp they have to walk the stairs, into a study. Saying nothing, Alfred continues through the house. It’s beautiful, old, rich, and reminds Draco a little uncomfortably of the home he grew up in probably over thirty years ago. 

The lofty front hall is festooned in ribbons, award plaques, photographs. Evalina rakes her gaze over everything, sucking in as many details as her training enables, and something about the childish wonder makes Draco nostalgic for the days when he looked the same. There was a time when he would have turned up his nose at a muggle household, or rolled his eyes at the concept of living without magic, and later years when he would have let himself be impressed. Tonight, he’s too wrecked for his usual awe of stately homes to penetrate. He just wants a cup of tea. 

“I’ve lived here since before you were born, young Malfoy,” says Alfred, “My Bruce is a few years older than you and my Hermione.”

“Who’s Hermione?” asks Black Bat, now in plain clothes. Draco smiles humourlessly at Evalina’s start, too accustomed to listening for heartbeats to switch the ability off. The niggling awareness of life comes from so many transitions into his dragon form – seidr sometimes takes elements of other forms and ties them into the ‘base’ genetics of magic-bearers and shifters. Irritating, upon occasion, but lives have been saved too many times for Draco to bother removing the coding. There are three heartbeats in the kitchen ahead: the child from the tank-car earlier and two new ones – all of them at rest. 

Alfred waves them into the room. All chatter ceases as they enter.

“Red Hood?”

The death-escaper, wielder of the All-Blades, and universally acknowledged all around badass freezes guiltily in his stride between the sink and kettle hob. “It’s probably too late to deny that, right?” he checks. Draco nods slowly. “Do I, uh – you can’t trial me on Earth, we have our own systems,” he says defensively, backing into the corner of the kitchen. 

“Peace,” he waves the young man’s worries away, “You’re surprisingly enough not wanted dead in any of the systems under my jurisdiction. Anyway,” Draco drips limply into a free chair at the small table, “I’m on leave.” The boy-child stares, silent, the smell of death leached into his soul. “You- ” Draco leans forward to stare the second boy, a grey creature, in his unearthly blue eyes – “You don’t exist, boy. I’ll have to take a look at your life-thread before I leave.”

“Um- I’m pretty sure I do exist, thanks, and who are you?” 

“This is an old acquaintance, Draco Mal-”

"Black. I go by Black or Lokason.” A summoned flick-knife flashes in Evalina’s fingers; it’s a simple matter to pluck it from her grasp and scrape out under his nails. Malfoy hasn’t been his name since before he turned 18, it doesn’t bother him, it shouldn’t be bothering him now. Perhaps it’s because he is talking to The Great Alfred Pennyworth; meeting heroes is always a twitchy sort of experience. He very much wants to avoid connections with his father. 

Alfred smiles, sudden and bright, making the pair of guests blink. “Of course. Jason, lad, pour us all a brew,” he continues affectionately, “And this is Evalina Barnes.” Offering a slight wave, she smiles uncomfortably as she shuffles into the kitchen. The grey boy stands and ushers her into his vacated chair, quirking a grin at the relief she lets into her face as she sits. Jason – the Red Hood – sets a pair of mugs on the table. 

“You, Jason Red Hood of Midgard, are a blessing,” whispers Draco vehemently as he wraps his hands around the mug, inhaling deeply and noisily. Hesitantly Evalina follows his example, uncertainly taking a sip before spluttering at the heat, eyes alarmed. “Easy lass,” laughs Draco, vaguely aware of his second eyelid blinking sideways across his eyes. The only person who sees is the grey not-alive boy, who shifts towards the sink in response to the very unnatural reflex. 

The younger boy hauls himself to his feet, padding to the fridge. It’s been many years since he last saw an Earth fridge – despite it being one of the few Midgardian inventions to have been exported throughout the galaxies. There’s one in his suite on Asgard, one of those ones with the fridge on top and freezer underneath. Something smells absolutely amazing. 

Two plates and two bowls clatter onto the small table, followed by a handful of cutlery. “It’s fresh today, Arabic recipes,” says the child shortly. Already digging into whatever the dish with all the chickpeas is, Draco sticks his thumb up. Between the two of them the bowls and plates are emptied in ten minutes or less. 

“Now come. Do you room together?” Alfred stands, smiling. 

“Maybe f’ the besth?” Evalina offers up, tapping her tongue with her fingertips. 

Draco nods. “Together is fine, but if you have two connecting rooms...”

“Together it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review? I am writing these for _me_ over anything else.


End file.
